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bedlamsbardI...wrote original fic. And it wasn't the colonial fantasy!
I have decided to describe this one as "The Lies of Locke Lamora, only Locke is a doctor and Jean is Susan Pevensie. And set in Florence instead of Venice." In other words, Peter and Susan are thieves and probably not siblings and Peter is also Jack from Lost. But there is no island. Probably.
Sometime in the early hours of the morning, when the pale light of dawn was just beginning to filter through the cracks in their battered shutters, Signe comes back into their one room apartment, undresses, and drapes herself across Corbin like a kind of living blanket, kicking their actual sheets onto the floor. He rouses enough to wrap an arm around her waist as she presses a sleepy kiss to his collarbone, then tilts her head up to press another to his mouth.
She smells like Night Market coffee, bitter and unsweetened and flavored with chilies from the south of Jaspal, where even the mild food is so spicy that it burns the roof of your mouth and leaves you with steam pouring out of your ears and nostrils. Corbin kisses her slowly, licking the taste from her mouth, and kisses her hair when she moves to use his shoulder as a pillow, waiting until she’s fallen asleep to recapture the blankets with his free arm. It’s still winter, just barely, and there’s a hint of a chill in the air.
The next time he wakes up it’s true dawn and Rahmat Ala is banging on his door, shouting, “Doc! Doc, come on, open up the damn door!”
Signe moans a protest and rolls off him, stealing his pillow and putting it over her head. “Get the door, Corbin,” she says, voice muffled by the fabric. “You know he won’t go away until you do.” She hangs onto the pillow with grim determination as he tries to steal it back from her. “Get the door!”
Sensing an ally, Rahmat intensifies his onslaught. “Doc, come on! I could be standing here holding my severed arm and bleeding to death!”
“You wouldn’t be able to shout so loudly!” Corbin yells back. “Blood loss!”
But at this point the damage is done; he delivers a slap to Signe’s bare ass and drops the tangle of sheets on her as he gets up, pulling on his trousers as he goes to the door. She squeaks in protest and burrows deeper into the bed.
Rahmat shoves past him and into the apartment as soon as Corbin gets the locks undone, dropping into a beaten up chair at an equally beaten up table. “What took you so long?” he demands. “I could have broken something! I could have lost an ear! I could have had an incurable disease!”
Corbin locks the door again and puts his back against it, folding his arms over his chest. “What exactly do you expect me to do if you have an incurable disease?” he asks, curious.
Rahmat waves one hand. “I don’t know, get rid of my suffering? Why are you asking me, aren’t you the doctor?”
“Don’t tempt me to hasten your inevitable demise,” Corbin says dryly, pushing himself off the door to throw open the four windows one by one, flooding the room with sunlight and making Signe moan again as she tries to draw the pillow even more tightly over her head. “What seems to be the problem?”
Rahmat gives him a huge-eyed look of protest. “I’m bleeding, Doc.”
“Tell him that if he’s not actually dying, I’m going to kill him,” Signe instructs from beneath the pillow.
“Signe!” Rahmat cries. “Baby! Is that you under all those blankets? When are you going to leave the doc and come spend a night with me? A night’s all you need.”
“Sorry, were you bleeding somewhere?” Corbin asks, leaning against the table and blocking Rahmat’s view of the bed. He gives Rahmat a quick once-over, then another, longer one, trying to ascertain where the injury might be. There’s no sign of blood on Rahmat’s clothes – but on the other hand, he’s wearing all black. There’s signs of hastily washed off charcoal on his face; Corbin’s not even going to bother asking what he’s been doing this past night. The real question is why it had taken him so long to come here; Rahmat’s no fool when it comes to his continued good health.
I have decided to describe this one as "The Lies of Locke Lamora, only Locke is a doctor and Jean is Susan Pevensie. And set in Florence instead of Venice." In other words, Peter and Susan are thieves and probably not siblings and Peter is also Jack from Lost. But there is no island. Probably.
Sometime in the early hours of the morning, when the pale light of dawn was just beginning to filter through the cracks in their battered shutters, Signe comes back into their one room apartment, undresses, and drapes herself across Corbin like a kind of living blanket, kicking their actual sheets onto the floor. He rouses enough to wrap an arm around her waist as she presses a sleepy kiss to his collarbone, then tilts her head up to press another to his mouth.
She smells like Night Market coffee, bitter and unsweetened and flavored with chilies from the south of Jaspal, where even the mild food is so spicy that it burns the roof of your mouth and leaves you with steam pouring out of your ears and nostrils. Corbin kisses her slowly, licking the taste from her mouth, and kisses her hair when she moves to use his shoulder as a pillow, waiting until she’s fallen asleep to recapture the blankets with his free arm. It’s still winter, just barely, and there’s a hint of a chill in the air.
The next time he wakes up it’s true dawn and Rahmat Ala is banging on his door, shouting, “Doc! Doc, come on, open up the damn door!”
Signe moans a protest and rolls off him, stealing his pillow and putting it over her head. “Get the door, Corbin,” she says, voice muffled by the fabric. “You know he won’t go away until you do.” She hangs onto the pillow with grim determination as he tries to steal it back from her. “Get the door!”
Sensing an ally, Rahmat intensifies his onslaught. “Doc, come on! I could be standing here holding my severed arm and bleeding to death!”
“You wouldn’t be able to shout so loudly!” Corbin yells back. “Blood loss!”
But at this point the damage is done; he delivers a slap to Signe’s bare ass and drops the tangle of sheets on her as he gets up, pulling on his trousers as he goes to the door. She squeaks in protest and burrows deeper into the bed.
Rahmat shoves past him and into the apartment as soon as Corbin gets the locks undone, dropping into a beaten up chair at an equally beaten up table. “What took you so long?” he demands. “I could have broken something! I could have lost an ear! I could have had an incurable disease!”
Corbin locks the door again and puts his back against it, folding his arms over his chest. “What exactly do you expect me to do if you have an incurable disease?” he asks, curious.
Rahmat waves one hand. “I don’t know, get rid of my suffering? Why are you asking me, aren’t you the doctor?”
“Don’t tempt me to hasten your inevitable demise,” Corbin says dryly, pushing himself off the door to throw open the four windows one by one, flooding the room with sunlight and making Signe moan again as she tries to draw the pillow even more tightly over her head. “What seems to be the problem?”
Rahmat gives him a huge-eyed look of protest. “I’m bleeding, Doc.”
“Tell him that if he’s not actually dying, I’m going to kill him,” Signe instructs from beneath the pillow.
“Signe!” Rahmat cries. “Baby! Is that you under all those blankets? When are you going to leave the doc and come spend a night with me? A night’s all you need.”
“Sorry, were you bleeding somewhere?” Corbin asks, leaning against the table and blocking Rahmat’s view of the bed. He gives Rahmat a quick once-over, then another, longer one, trying to ascertain where the injury might be. There’s no sign of blood on Rahmat’s clothes – but on the other hand, he’s wearing all black. There’s signs of hastily washed off charcoal on his face; Corbin’s not even going to bother asking what he’s been doing this past night. The real question is why it had taken him so long to come here; Rahmat’s no fool when it comes to his continued good health.